


Everywhere and Nowhere

by Quedarius



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Hannibal is dead, I was sad and so I wrote a sad thing, M/M, Unrepentant Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:22:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/pseuds/Quedarius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title implies. Hannibal is dead, Will deals (poorly). One shot; not related to any of my series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everywhere and Nowhere

Hannibal is dead.

Will digs the grave himself, partly out of necessity and partly because Hannibal had asked him to, if not in the exact words. He understands death, god knows he’s seen enough of it, and he knows it’s just an empty shell, but still the thought of leaving Hannibal for the FBI to find, of not knowing where he is or what will happen to him bothers Will in some deep, primal way.

He wipes dirt from his hands and looks at the swell of earth where Hannibal will stay after he leaves this place. 

“I guess this is it.”

He says it even though there will be no answer. Hannibal isn’t  _ Hannibal _ anymore. The most alive person he’d ever known, the most real, is only empty flesh. Will wants very much to be dangerously drunk. He has danced, over the last 48 hours, with the thought that maybe he’s dead too, that this is the kind of punishment you get for loving the way they had—violently, recklessly. He doesn’t have any good reason to believe that he’s real, now that Hannibal is in the ground, except that he’d always thought when he died, Abigail would be there. He likes to think he knows better than to hope for something after, but understands that he doesn’t.

Sun filters drowsily through the trees, the dying kind that goes orange and then red before it goes out. A bird calls somewhere to its mate. Will can’t think of what to say.

He considers  _ goodbye, Dr. Lecter _ , because it has the appeal of bringing them full circle, and besides, hasn’t Hannibal always loved a good harmony? But that belongs to an old life, to an old Will that died that night in the roiling Atlantic. If he’d really wanted to play a variation on their theme, he’d have burned the house to the ground with them inside, mixed their ashes as they had in another life.

He thinks of what it would be, to crawl beneath the loam and rest his cheek on Hannibal’s chest, watch the maw of the earth close above them. He imagines the quiet, the dark, the cool press of dirt. He wonders if this is what Hannibal had envisioned—not some work of scalpel, no grand memorial in viscera, but a deep grave in soft earth, with the sound of a river nearby.

He had known Will better than anyone had or would, so he knew what he was asking when he told Will to take care of him. Probably, it was alright.

Will is reminded of when his father had died. They hadn’t spoken much since he’d left for school, neither of them comfortable on the phone, and so, similarly, he’d stood by as they lowered the grave, numb and silent. He’d been younger, it still bothered him to see a corpse, the way it’s supposed to. Dave Graham had been buried in his best and only suit. Will buried Hannibal in exactly the clothes he’d been wearing—a sweater that hadn’t always been red, tailored pants, socked feet. 

_ “Tell me what to do, please, Hannibal, tell me what—” _

Will realizes now that he should have probably at least put his shoes back on.

_ “Nonono, stop—stay with me, Hannibal, remember? Remember that? You’ll, uh, you’ll want to retreat inside yourself, but I need you to stay…” _

_ The hand that touches his cheek fondly leaves a warm red smear. _

And there’s not so much as a headstone, but there’s only so much time before they come looking. Will doesn’t particularly feel like running, anymore. He wants to stay here, to see what this green place will look like come Autumn, blanketed with leaves. He’s so fucking tired.

_ “Hey—hey, no, tell me how to fix this, tell me—” _

_ Hannibal smiles, and it feels like Will is the one dying. Hannibal’s blood is drying on his cheek, his hands, in drips and smears on the hardwood floor, on the latch of his black-leather kit where Will had fumbled for something that would stop its flow. _

_ “Will,” Hannibal says, only it sounds all wrong, ends in a cough that just adds to the ever-growing red, “it’s too late for that.” _

_ He knows it, knows it deep even then, remembers how scared he’d been in that cabin, cold and soaked and broken after the fall, and he knows that this is worse, but still he shakes his head, _

_ “I—I’ll call someone then, we’ll get you to a hospital, we can figure—” _

_ “No.” _

_ It’s a command; one that Will intends to ignore. _

_ “No,” he repeats, and it’s the soft, sad sound of it that stops Will’s hand from dialing. “It’s too late for that too. I would rather—” he winces, and all the air leaves Will’s lungs in a painful lurch, “As this appears to be the end, either way, I would rather be here, with you.” _

_ Will nods. He doesn’t know what else to do. Hannibal is dying, and he can’t do anything but slide carefully onto the couch, press his nose to Hannibal’s neck, and hold on, as though somehow he can stop the awful hitch in his breath, the way it slows. Hannibal’s heartbeat has been a constant, Will could measure time against it, but now it falters and skips. _

_ “Where else would I go?” he asks bleakly against cooling skin, and this time, there is no answer. _

It’s not enough by half. Hannibal is dead, the world should not remain so beautiful. Will wishes that he could do more, but the sky is purpling into dusk, and he knows that it’s time. In the end, he doesn’t say anything. He decides that Hannibal, if he’s capable of such things, already understands.

He picks up a smooth, grey stone from the turned earth in front of him, pockets it without knowing why, and walks away.

He won’t come back.


End file.
